Of Feet
by CrackinAndProudOfIt
Summary: ...in which Grandfather Beren plays with the kiddies, sarcasm ensues, and the authoress loses a part of her dignity. Crack!


**And the credit *cough*blame*cough* for this plotbunny goes to AzureSkye23, without whom, it seems, the world would be short this odd crack!fic.**

The game's origins, were I to detail them, would take many more cantos and paragraphs and pages than I have here available- which is more than likely providential, seeing as its genesis is, in fact, revealed by its rules of play. As for those very strictures, I know them far, far too well. I am familiar with its beginnings, as well. (Indeed, I was there before it even became a diversion.)

But that is not today's tale. Today's tale is of how its innovator decided it should be put to rest.

~OoO~

"Come on, children! You know what game's up next!" The smile on my husband's greying features bore every bit of the radiance it had on the day when he first invented _Quiet Feet 'Round Morgoth's Seat_ for the amusement of Dior in our son's early boyhood. Dior now had three children of his own, yet some traditions, it seems, never meet their (hardly untimely) ends.

"Grandfather, really?" Elurin's features compressed into a disgusted frown. "Didn't we play it yesterday?"

Beren rubbed his hands together. "It's an oldie but a goodie- just ask your father." (Here he winked toward Dior, who smiled weakly and returned to deep conversation with Nimloth.) "Now, let's all sit down..."

Every round of _Quiet Feet_ for decades had commenced precisely as today's: with all children present circled around Beren, listening raptly as he regaled them with the oh-so-thrilling tale of the first game. (Won by yours truly and her exuberant beloved, if you must know.)

Audible groans proceeded from the grandchildren (and were promptly ignored by my husband) as they sank, defeated ere beginning to battle, down to the green grass surrounding Beren. He rubbed his hands together, lips pursed unsuccessfully to keep a smile from bursting out; I rolled my eyes, hand restrained with difficulty from smacking my own forehead. (Or pulling out my own- no, rather _Beren's_ hair.)

"Does anyone want to begin?" Beren's eyes still sparkled with mirth. "Or shall I?"

Three sets of disinterested grey eyes stared back at him with expressions that said,_ This is just embarrassing._

I tensed and winced, trying (and subsequently failing) to turn my attention back to the gardening I had been trying to begin when my husband decided it was (the at least weekly) game time. Would it be the full monty (starting with Beren's elaborate tales of his friendships with all wild creatures), or the condensed version (starting with Beren's great daring in creeping down innumerable tunnels to Morgoth's throne room)?

"I'm going to tell you a story," said the Man, "that will make you tremble in your clunking boots- and make you-"

"'Always want to wear the softest, lightest, quietest shoes within the Circles of the World.' Yes, Grandfather, we know."

"Elured!" And the gravity of my husband's tone but aggravated me further. "You know far better than to begin telling yet, young man! Be patient, be patient! Your segments will come in soon enough."

A huff of breath signaled silence from my grandson, and Beren continued.

"Your grandmother and I- oh, how lovely she was in those days-" Aggravation underwent an instant metamorphosis to rage. _In_ those _days_? But I remained quiet. "-started sneaking the very moment we entered the tunnels. We scampered and crept down those dark halls, running light and quiet as chubby little mouselets when the cat comes by."

"Meow," muttered Elurin sardonically, to a suppressed chuckle from his brother.

This earned them both an icy glare, which successfully transformed their chuckles into faint smirks as Beren cleared his throat and went on.

"As I was _describing_, your grandmother and I, running-"

"'Light as leaf on linden-tree'? We know the songs, Grandfather." The remark was Elured's this time.

"And this story..." put in little Elwing. Her brothers congratulated her with claps on the back and tame chuckles.

Beren sighed. "At any rate, we soon reached the throne room, and Grandmother put Morgoth to sleep, and he fell out of his throne snoring like planes, trains, and auto-"

"Too much time in Mandos, dear," I reprimanded. "Did you _really_ spend the entire period studying the future?"

He chiefly ignored me. "He was snoring loudly, anyway. At this point I slowly, slowly, carefully drew my knife and began to creep my way over to the floor where the fallen Dark Lord lay." His face lit up all the more as he leaned down to whisper, "Now's the part where you all come in...!" He raised his voice once more. "First, I had to..."

"Shut up before we walk off?" Elurin tried.

"No! I had to ge-e-e-ttt my balance on the scraps of gravel on the floor." He stood to his feet and (most unbecomingly) pretended to wobble. "And then I had to cree-ee-ee-eep around the..."

"Balrogs," said Elwing.

"Not just any Balrogs, dear sister!" Elurin's voice dripped with sarcasm. "'The scariest, hairiest Balrogs you've ever seen, with blood staining their ebony horns, with hot coals for eyes, and with a whip of solid **_fire_**! in each hand.'" He swung his head toward Beren and raised his eyebrows.

"Precisely!" My husband was elated. "And after all that, what came next?"

The ungodly racket produced by a pair of nesting swallows in the beech above his head became terribly pronounced.

He cleared his throat. "Why, it's the best part! I had to get around Morgoth himself because, by now, his crown had rolled from his head- with the Silmarils in it!"

"Oh, no," said Elured drily. "Whatever did you do, heroic sire?"

"I took a deep breath-" He did just that. "-until the air was all pent-up inside of me like too much new wine for one bottle. And I put one quiet foot... then the other quiet foot... in front of the other, and all the time I was praying that your grandmother's enchantment would hold, until **_finally_**! I reached the crown. Oh, my hands were all in a tremble of trepidation but I lowered the knife...! And sawed right through the iron.

"I wouldn't have stopped at one Silmaril! I swear to you, I wouldn't have stopped, had it not been for that treacherous knife (I blame that fool Curufin who gave me it-"

"Grandfather?" Elwing's high voice piped up, and Beren turned to face her.

"Yes, little lady?"

"I thought you took the knife from Curufin."

My husband returned her a curved grimace. "So I did. But, at any rate, it still chipped beneath my grasp, and **_pling!_** the tip of it flew to smack Morgoth's face. I looked up, dismayed, stricken still with horror as the Dark Lord let out a breath, a sigh, a squeak... of a moan. I met your grandmother's brilliant grey wells-"

"Wells?" queried Elurin in mock-surprise. "There seems to be something you've never told us..."

"Wells?" said his brother. "That's it." Elured rose. "I'm off to get a drink."

"Sit _down_, young man. And they were eyes," hissed Beren. "I met her grey eyes, and we turned tail as quick as we may, running out of Angband, our purpose- for the moment accomplished." My husband's smile returned, and he looked about him as if for applause. None was, of course, to be had. "Well, now it's time to play, children! Who wants to be Morgoth today? Balrogs? Grandmother? Let's everyone shut our eyes and see who can hear me passing."

Yes, I am afraid that Beren played as himself every, single time. Dior was well into adolescence before he realized that his entire childhood he had been duped into letting his father relive what was (arguably) the Man's crowning moment of glory. Our grandchildren, however, seemed to have caught on to the way of things much sooner.

"You know, Grandfather, why don't you be Morgoth for a change?" tried Elured. "We get, erm... tired of having rocks thrown at our faces."

"But I usually miss, don't I?" countered Beren. "Don't I? If only I could have been able to direct Angrist's shard so skillfully... But now everyone, assemble, assemble!" He clapped his hands. "Nimloth, Dior, you two can be Balrogs if you like." My son and daughter-in-law turned from conversation to face him with skeptical expressions. Beren smiled winsomely."You know how the children would love it..." he explained.

Dior's laugh was somewhat uncomfortable, turning what was typically a musical sound into something akin to the death throes of an aging sheep. "No, thank you, Father; ah, we have... cleaning to tend to." With a vigorous nod from Nimloth, the couple hurried off in the direction of their home near the waterfall.

"I suppose that just leaves us five, then, doesn't it?" Beren's tone was tinged with genuine sorrow.

"Make that three," amended Elured, as our grandsons rose to their feet and smiled winsomely in tandem. "Mother and Father need our help."

"And mine!" added Elwing, leaping up.

"Oh come, children, it's just one little round, and it's been nearly a week since last we played..."

The now-prominent noises of the swallows above were enough to colour my cheeks.

"And anything's better than chores, right?"

"Wrong," replied Elurin with a tilt of the eyebrow, and a huff of breath. The three children turned their backs on us, striding off down the green isle dreaming of cleaning their bedrooms.

Beren rose and made a few swift steps over to me and the flowers surrounding my feet.

"No," I said. "Not playing."


End file.
